


In The Business Of Flowers & Chocolates

by Trickster88



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trickster88/pseuds/Trickster88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is wrong with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Business Of Flowers & Chocolates

**Author's Note:**

> AN-This was my first ever Sherlock fic! Filled this for a prompt over [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=69761050). I hope this wasn't too bad of a first try! (:

“Freak’s here. And Dr. Watson.” Donovan announced, grudgingly holding back the tarp covering the door to the crime scene to grant the consulting detectives access. Sherlock smiled pointedly at her before ducking through, and John offered her one of his apologetic looks.

 

“Seventh one this month.” Lestrade shook his head gravely. “This body count is way too high.”

 

“I agree. Cause of death? No, don’t tell me, I already know. John?” Sherlock gestured to the body.

 

“Why ask me if you already know?” John grumbled to himself, crouching down next to the dead body. He knew the answer-Sherlock needed someone to point out the obvious so he could exhibit his superior skills. John could do that-he was very good at it.

 

John lifted the victim’s head, examining the skin carefully for any abrasions.

 

“Woman, Caucasian, appears to be in her early 20’s. I’d say the cause of death would be the trauma to the back of her head-no, wait,” John pressed his fingers to the woman’s abdomen. “The killer broke her ribs, then the head trauma. But it wasn’t the trauma that killed her. The rib punctured her lung…”

 

John turned, looking over his shoulder at his flat mate. Normally, his analysis would have been interrupted by now with a snarky jab at everything he had missed, or an irritated huff at how slow he was.

 

But no such interruption came. Sherlock was staring intently at something behind him, presumably the dead woman’s feet, but offered no commentary.

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John called; rousing him from his thoughts. The detective’s eyes rose to meet the doctor’s. “Everything okay?”

 

“What? Yes of course. Where were we? Broken ribs!” Sherlock continued, picking up his normal case procedure.

 

Lestrade shot John a look, and the doctor shrugged. Who knew where Sherlock’s mind was half the time?

 

***

 

“Come, John, we’re going out.” Sherlock said, quickly knotting his scarf. John sighed dramatically, reluctantly abandoning his warm recliner.

 

“Can’t we have one night off? We’ve had cases non-stop for the past week.” John half-complained. Sherlock stared at John, catching and holding his gaze for a moment before stepping back towards the couch, one hand lingering on his scarf.

 

“Do you want to stay in?” John blinked, surprised by the response. Sherlock never asked for his opinion. Usually he’d be whisked off somewhere in a cab, but then, John wasn’t  _really_ complaining. He was certainly never bored.

 

“Um, sure. If it’s not urgent?” Sherlock slipped off his scarf, tossing his coat over a chair. Puzzled, John plopped back down in his armchair.

 

“So…” John started, after an awkward pause. Sherlock looked at him, a small furrow in his brow, but otherwise appearing content. This set off warning bells in John’s head-he knew how the man could get when bored, and he did  _not_ want Sherlock to discharge his weapon into the wall again. “Are you sure  _you_ want to stay in?”

 

“Whatever you want.” Sherlock replied simply. John raised an eyebrow, but accepted the bizarre answer. Gift, horse, mouth.

 

“Let’s order a pizza, and I’ll break out my whiskey.” John suggested, and Sherlock nodded. Still slightly confused, John went to the kitchen.

 

_Perhaps it’s some sort of social experiment._ John reasoned, pouring the liquor. He rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers, finally procuring a deck of cards.

 

“Hey, Sherlock, has anyone ever taught you poker?”

 

***

 

“ _Something’s wrong._ ” John rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Sherlock had run out for some supplies for one insane experiment or another, and John was busy working on his blog. Naturally, Mycroft had to interrupt him just as he’d got to working.

 

“Hello to you to. I’m doing well, thank you for asking.” John snorted. Mycroft ignored him, as per usual.

 

“ _Something is wrong with Sherlock.”_ John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. At first he had taken Mycroft’s warnings seriously, but the past two red alerts had been Mrs. Hudson’s birthday present and a hair gel prank Sherlock had intended to implement on Anderson.

 

“What is it this time; has he bought himself a goldfish?” John set about typing again, balancing his mobile between his ear and shoulder.

 

“ _John, my security detail has just informed me that at 1:07 PM this afternoon, Sherlock Holmes purchased a bouquet of roses and a box of scotch whiskey chocolates_.” John froze, surprised. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. 1:18 PM.

 

“As far as I know, he hasn’t been on any dates.” John offered, ceasing his typing.

 

_“Keep an eye on him, John. My brother doesn’t buy chocolates.”_ The line went dead, and John set down the mobile.

 

“Please, be a bit more cryptic next time Mycroft. I insist!” John muttered. The front door opened and closed a moment later, and within a few seconds Sherlock was back.

 

“Hello.” John greeted casually.

 

“Hello.” Sherlock returned the greeting, moving into the kitchen with several plastic bags full of eggs. The flowers were very clearly visible in the top of one of the bags.

 

“What are those for?” John asked carefully, entering the kitchen and opening the fridge.

 

“I thought they might brighten up the flat.” Sherlock replied in a bored drawl. He was busy counting eggs.

 

“Ah.” John nodded. Brighten up the flat? Since when did  _Sherlock_  want to  _brighten up the flat?_

 

“Do you like them?” The detective asked, not even bothering to look up. John picked up the roses, looking around for a vase of some kind in Mrs. Hudson’s cabinets.

 

“They’re lovely. Nice and…red. Charming.” Sherlock didn’t answer, and John set the flowers in a vase in silence.

 

The doctor turned around, heading back for his writing, when a small box hit him square in the chest. He fumbled and caught it, only to find that Sherlock was still focused obsessively on his eggs.

 

“Saw those in the store. Thought you might like them.” John looked at the heart-shaped box. Fancy cursive text informed him that the chocolates were dark chocolate, filled with single malt scotch whiskey.

 

“That’s the malt we drank the other night.” John observed. Sherlock stayed silent. “Uh, thanks. Thank you.”

 

“Glad you like them. Sherlock remarked robotically.

 

John wandered back to the desk, setting the chocolates down absently.

 

To: Mycroft Holmes

From: John Watson

**He’s fine. Saw chocolates, remembered what type of whiskey I like.**

 

To: John Watson

From: Mycroft Holmes

**What about the flowers?**

 

To: Mycroft Holmes

From: John Watson

**For Mrs. Hudson.**

 

John set aside his mobile, returning to his writing. He didn’t tell Mycroft about the odd flat-brightening excuse, nor did he tell him that the chocolates were heart-shaped.

 

And he certainly wasn’t going to tell him that he could have sworn he’d seen Sherlock  _smile._

 

***

 

This had gone on long enough.

 

He was just  _sitting there._ Sure, Sherlock sat around the flat a majority of his waking hours, but there was always some sort of energy, purpose, behind it. Usually, thinking about a case and working towards an astoundingly logical conclusion.

 

But not this time. He was just  _sitting there._ And while John welcomed some peace and quiet once in a while, his flat mate had been like that for  _nearly a week_.

 

The last time Sherlock had been this out of it, the incident had ended with the fire department knocking down their door and dragging Sherlock away from the tire he had managed to set aflame in the oven.

 

Needless to say, John was slightly apprehensive about confronting the detective, but he figured someone ought to.

 

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly, half-hoping he wouldn’t be heard. Sherlock looked up from his icy musings, evidently intrigued by the hesitation in John’s expression.

 

“Yes?” John took a deep breath.

 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock tilted his head, considering the question.

 

“No, I don’t quite think so.” John raised an eyebrow, more than a little concerned. If Sherlock was  _admitting_ he wasn’t okay, something was seriously amiss.

 

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock ignored him, reaching for his violin. He plucked at the strings absently.

 

“I’m not…sure.” The words were infused with curiosity and wonder. Whatever the sleuth was experiencing, it was obviously new.

 

“And what does that mean?” John asked patiently. Sherlock shook his head, sliding the bow across the strings.

 

“Nothing, John. It is not of import.” John laughed, skeptical.

 

“Yeah, right. What’s going on with you?” Sherlock’s strokes lengthened considerably, dragging long, melodic notes from the instrument.

 

“It’s not your concern.” John shook his head, jabbing a finger at the detective.

 

“ _You_ are  _my_ flat mate,  _this_ is  _our_ flat, and  _I_ am bloody well concerned!” John let a breath of frustrated air escape his lungs. “Look, you’ve been acting odd lately, and I’m worried.”

 

“It is none of your  _business_.” Sherlock insisted sharply.

 

“The hell it isn’t!” John exploded. Sherlock set his violin aside and stood up, invading John’s personal space.

 

“Now, explain to me, this, if you please,  _Dr. Watson_ ,” His tone was venomous, but a trace of emotion John had never heard before lurked just underneath. “If I love you, what business is it of yours?”

 

Sherlock’s face and body screamed rage, but it wasn’t directed at John-he could tell, Sherlock was angry with himself, infuriated by his inability to understand his own feelings. Sherlock was not as well-acquainted with doubt as the average person-especially not doubt in  _himself._

 

“You…” John repeated, staring at the consultant.

 

“Love you. Yes.” Sherlock snapped, frowning. “What of it?”

 

John stared for a long moment-they were close, far too close for proper social etiquette, but yet not close enough-and Sherlock was standing there, practically  _pouting_ and oh  _God_ he’d said he loved him.  _Sherlock Holmes_ loved **him**.

 

John snatched Sherlock’s collar, quickly eliminating the little space left between them. He pressed their lips together before any objection-be it Sherlock’s or his own-could interrupt.

 

Sherlock stood perfectly still, observing the display within himself. He had experienced kisses before-on the cheek from mother; stiff and neat; on the hand from the occasional avid fan; awed and soft; and once back in Uni from a drunken co-ed; all teeth and wetness.

 

But none of them had been  _John Watson,_ and Sherlock knew that this kiss could never be replicated.

 

While his brain collected and catalogued this information, John’s hands had migrated into his hair, threading through the thick locks enthusiastically. Sherlock raised his own hand carefully to touch John’s elbow, entirely at a loss for how to actively participate.

 

However, John didn’t seem to notice Sherlock’s lack of experience-he pressed up against the taller man, not a hairsbreadth of space between them. Sherlock moved his lips against John’s experimentally, and John broke the kiss, laughing.

 

“For a superior intellect you are  _astoundingly_ slow.” John growled sensually into Sherlock’s ear. He began to pull away, maintaining eye contact, when suddenly Sherlock yanked on his elbow, forcing the doctor back into his personal space.

 

One arm snaked behind John, holding him at his lower back, while the other moved to cup his cheek. Sherlock’s thumb brushed over the ex-soldier’s lips once, twice, and the taller man leaned in, hesitantly initiating another kiss.

 

This one was softer, slower, but still infused with the same burning feeling as before-Sherlock knew this one couldn’t be replicated either.

 

And that made him one selfish  _bastard,_ because he had no intention of sharing.

 

“I’m a fast learner.” Sherlock whispered back. “I love you.”

 

“You’ve mentioned.” John grinned.

 

“Wasn’t sure you heard.” Sherlock smirked.

 

“Of course I heard. I listen to everything you say.”

 

“Glad you’re paying attention.”

 

John kissed him again, and Sherlock wondered how he’d gone so long without this.

 

No, not without  _this_ , but without  _John._

 

“Have I mentioned that I love you as well?”

 

“Now you have.”

 

John’s hands had made their way to Sherlock’s ass.

 

“Stop that, Mycroft’s watching.”

 

“He would be, wouldn’t he?” John leveled Sherlock with a gaze that clearly conveyed the fact that  _he didn’t care_.

 

Sherlock, it seemed, found himself holding the same viewpoint.

 

“So the flowers…and the chocolates…and the staying in…” John asked quietly, and Sherlock almost blushed.

 

“I believe they were subconscious bids for your affection.” John looked at him for a long moment, thinking over his deduction.

 

“Well, some of it was subconscious.” Sherlock defended, and John laughed.

 

“You brilliant idiot.” John commended breathlessly.  Sherlock grinned, slowly reaching around the smaller man to return the hand-on-the-ass John was providing him with.

 

“It certainly seems so.”

 

FIN


End file.
